Chapter 10

New Mexico’s late afternoon sun shrouded the canyons of red rock and scrub brush, allowing the gentle breezes to stir the twigs and fine dust into miniature tornadoes. Warmth was gone.  Cold surroundings were making their nighttime entrance.

Beyond the plateau where Pump’s “Beast” remained parked, wisps of smoke rose from beneath the canyon’s edge.  Footprints facing downwards in the sand confirmed Pump and Jared remained below.

Warm coals of sage long absent of flame and its consuming energy throbbed with languid finality, reminding Time that a ceremonial-like closure was in its waning hours.

As they awaited the night’s cloak of darkness, Pump and Jared sat still upon slabs of rock inside the cave, periodically gazing at the rising smoke reaching above their heads toward the tiered wall where once Taza slept, their primary focus fixed upon the rock pile of their horrific discovery.  It appeared that only hours before, Taza had systematically laid his body prone upon a slab bed and molded his burial tomb, one rock at a time, upon himself.  After removing a few rocks earlier, they discovered a swollen snake bite on Taza’s neck and assumed he anticipated his end as he slowly succumbed to the poison and entombed himself.  Having replaced the stones upon the body beginning to decompose, they both sat in contemplation. 

Pump continued to quietly chant traditional Apache prayers as Jared remained transfixed on the pile of rock, his eyes weary and swollen from tears he hadn’t known he possessed.

Allowing the dying fire’s embers to merge into shades of bright orange and red, Pump finished his chanting and gathered a couple of worn blankets from Taza’s meager possessions. 

Together, the two bedded down for the night just outside the cave, away from the decomposing remains.  The isolation and quiet was deafening to Jared.  Only the droning noise of Cicadas in the distance gave respite from the day’s heavy impact on him.  “Is it okay to talk now?” he asked.

Pump, his eyes staring up at the stars and showing no sign of fatigue, remained still beneath his cover.  “It was never not okay, Jared.”

“I just thought…”

Pump interrupted, “It’s okay.  It’s okay.”  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  “It’s not as if we were close or anything…”

“But…”

Pump continued.  “It’s just what happens sometimes.  Apache traditions are deep.  They aren’t learned.  Something inside us just…does.  Just reacts.”

“I’ve not, uh…I’ve not been to this part of my head before.  I mean…”

Pump relaxed his fix on the heavens and smiled.  “Most haven’t.  And you…it’s good you let that LA influence just…well, take a rest.”

Jared leaned on one elbow and talked softly.  “It’s as if…I don’t know.  As if I’m somebody else.”

“Sweating can set you up for all kinds of discovery.”

“No…I mean, this place…this cave.  When we first discovered Taza, I… “

Pump grinned.  “You freaked out, little buddy.  Fucking freaked out.”

Jared laid back down.  “Yeah…you can understand.  It wasn’t what I expected.”

“Neither did I.  Just thought he was gone on one of his ‘trips.’  He was famous for his ‘trips.’” 

“You knew, though…I mean, when you saw the rocks.”

“Yeah…well, burial mounds are part of our heritage.”

“Not like that though, right?  I mean…”

“No, they don’t usually bury themselves.”

“How do you know?  Somebody else could have…you know, done something to make him…”

“He had his mother’s Turquoise locket in his left hand, remember?  No…that bite on his neck…classic rattler.  Probably gave him about an hour.  Time to close his wings, rest and prepare.”

“God.  Hard to believe.  I couldn’t do that.”

“You’d be surprised what you can do when you’re alone, drugged up, and of course, being Apache gave him some added help.”

“Could you?” Asked Jared.

“Could I bury myself?  Don’t know.  Most deaths are not like the slow ebb of life a serpent can give you.  When I lost the hand…I guess I was close.  Shock, bullets flying everywhere…me with rubble all over me…half buried from the IED.  Yeah…maybe…maybe I could.”

“Death.”

“What?” said Pump.

“Death.  My mom and dad…Pakwa said one must embrace death.  I don’t know.”

“You will.  You’ll know how natural it is…someday.”

“Yeah…maybe.”

“Try to get some sleep now.  We’ll head back in a few hours.”

“Taza?”

“Here.  He’ll rest peaceful here.  He deserves that.  G’night.”

“Night, Pump.  Thanks.”

“If you say so.  Sleep well.”

***

Ever since his childhood, Charles Dunn marveled at how simple, yet efficient, trains were as transportation.  As he held his phone at the window of a modern sleeper-car, the passing mountainsides bore testimony to his long-held belief that all man’s inventive accomplishment—including the technology that allowed his satellite connected GPS phone to be instantaneously delivering HD pictures to Purcell’s editorial department for storage—did not top his youthful enthusiasm for trains.  Here he was riding the rails on a four-hour journey from Geneva through the tunnels and around precipitous curves of the Swiss Alps in total comfort, complete with a bottle of fine ’03 French Burgundy that was starting its breathing process.

“Will that be all, sir,” said the steward as he offered the cork for Charles’ approval.

Charles placed his phone on the table and lifted the bottle, examining the label, as he politely waved off the steward’s patient presentation of the cork.  “Thank you.  I’m sure the Swiss Rail system wouldn’t risk offending the Beaune Vineyards with a less than perfect storage of their fine wine.”

“Very good, sir,” said the steward; and with a nod of his head, slid the glass door open and exited.

Turning his attention back to the mountain views, Charles sighed quietly, hoping his comfort would not be short lived.  He was not a man who accepted failure as an option.

The sixty-minute cogwheel journey up the valley from Visp to Zermatt for the last leg of his travel was like a storybook ending to his continued nostalgia of toy trains and innocent youth.  Innocence, however, felt threatened as he considered his challenge to pick up the path of Sam Brenner’s disappearance.  What does Peter think I can find that all the International agencies missed?  He opened his laptop and brought up the data base index on Sam Brenner.  500 GB of memory held every word that was available on the man’s life and investigation of his disappearance.  A short while later as the train pulled into the station at Zermatt, Charles gathered his bags, took one last picture of his arrival and prepared for…what?

***

“It’s just not what I expected,” said Jared as he sat across from Pump at the Taos cafe.

“What you expected being?” said Pump, as he rose, placed a couple of dollars on the table, and excused himself.  “It’ll work itself out.  Sweat lodges are short trips into long journeys.  Gotta take a nap.  I’m beat.  Maybe later?”

Jared nodded.  “Maybe.”

Jared turned toward the kitchen where the heated window kept the plates warm. Pakwa moved about, crazed with the altering left handed flips of eggs with right handed stirs of Anasazi bean chili.  In his domain of food, there was no stop or finish line…only the race to keep up with the orders. 

As he remained transfixed, Jared’s mind continued to reel.  He replayed the mental tapes of his experience in the sweat lodge; the happenstance hookup with Pump; the cliff cave and burial.  The bike trip back to town had been hot.  In fact, Jared reminded himself that all he’d encountered this day was heat, heat and—he shook his head, blinking at the rising steam from the plates under the entre warming lamps—more heat.  He was looking forward to a night of sleep, even if the three-star hotel he’d checked into only had a large window fan.  “Cool nights,” Pump had said was the norm for July.  He thought again about Pump’s offer to let him crash at his place, but he felt he needed time alone…alone only after a few minutes with Pakwa.

“You look like a little lost puppy,” said the grandmotherly waitress.  “Get cha’ some coffee?”

“Huh…oh, yeah, coffee’s fine.  Just waiting for Pakwa.  Does he ever take a break, uh…” He squinted at the nametag, “…Deedee?”

“Seldom, but he’s off in…”  She glanced at the clock.  “Twenty minutes.”

“Early, eh?”

“Had an early morning out at his sweat lodge, he says.  Always knocks him out.  Don’t know why he still punishes himself like that.  Why, I did a sweatin’ long time ago, and Lordy, only saving grace was the pound I lost. ‘Course gained it right back and…”

Jared wiped his brow with his shirt.  “Deedee…I’m going to have that coffee to go, okay?  I think it might be cooler outside, you know, under the tree in the square.  And, could you make that iced?” 

She nodded and smiled.  “You betcha.”

“Deedee…”  He jotted down a quick message on a napkin.  “When you get a minute, would you slip this to Pakwa.  I’d like to have a word with him when he gets off.”  He handed the napkin to her and placed a one-dollar bill on the counter. 

Deedee poured his coffee over some ice, sealed the lid and put the bill in the cash register.  She then placed the note on the window counter and yelled back, “Hey, Pak…you got a visitor wantin’ to talk.”

Pakwa looked up momentarily from his stir-fry, noticed Jared, and nodded. 

***

Jared and Pakwa sat under the tree, staring toward the low roofs of the Taos main street.  The red sky bore its daily testimony to the validity of the picturesque lure of sunsets.

“Will it pass?” asked Jared.

“Pass…pass what?” answered Pakwa

“The confusion.”

“Confusion always come before mind gets clear.”

Jared sipped the last of his now warm iced coffee.  “Always?”

Pakwa turned to him.  “Not always.  Many go in, sweat, come out and go home.  No change.  Others go in, sweat, come out crazy.  You are probably somewhere in between.”

“Comforting.  Real comforting, Pakwa.”

“Not promise you anything.  Just promise Ben.”

“To make me sweat.  Anything else?”

“No more promises.  That seems to be enough.  You confused.”

“Yes.  I’m confused.  Like I told you an hour ago…I don’t cry.  I don’t get all…moody, you know?  I’m just not that way.”

“You are now.”

Jared turned to give him another sarcastic word, then checked himself.

“This feeling is just temporary though, right?”

Pakwa stood up and stretched his back.  “Ground getting harder.  I’m not fortuneteller, Jared.  Just a cook and sweat man.”

“So…”  Jared dropped his head, chin to the chest.  He sighed and stood, stretching his own back.

Pakwa smiled.  “Hard ground…temporary.  Hard head…temporary.  Heart?”

“Heart?”

“Your heart never temporary.  Always same.  Like engine in car.  Stays same.  Only maintenance varies.  You sweat.  Heart like engine…sometimes need oil change.  You get?”

Jared paused then held his fix on Pakwa’s eyes.  Beneath the folds of aged wrinkles twinkled the wisdom of experience.  Jared smiled.  He knew he was being played with, but in a good way.  “I get.”